Below the Salt
by Morninglight
Summary: Spoilers for DAI! Regan Mac Lanna has always lived below the salt. Her greatest allies sit with her while her greatest enemies feast above it. But live or die, she wouldn't have it any other way. Trigger warning for violence, implied suicide ideation and classism.


Note: One-shot that reminds me of my head-canon Human Commoner Warden Regan Mac Lanna in an all-Warden AU. Trigger warning for classism, violence, grief, implied suicidal ideation, implied children's deaths, mentioned cannibalism and psychological trauma. Spoilers for Dragon Age: Inquisition and Blackwall's story plus my particular head-canon for what happens to Blackwall if he's handed to the Wardens after the Breach is ended.

…

"I thought Wardens left their old lives behind."

Sitting below the tall, mabari-adorned silver salt cellar that divided noble from commoner, Regan Mac Lanna managed to find something resembling a smile for the well-meaning Orlesian Warden sharing their table. The 'common' Wardens were here: Abelas Tabris, given a pardon for putting Vaughn Urien's head on a pike where it belonged; Madorfinan Mahariel, who yearned to return to the nomadic Dalish now the Blight was decreed officially over; Enansel Surana, who was returning to Soldier's Peak to start a new Circle of Warden-Mages; and Brytta Brosca, who deserved a place above the salt because her brother-in-law was King Bhelen but who hated Sereda Aeducan like Oghren hated water, so she sat with them. And Regan Mac Lanna herself, a half-dwarven tinker from Redcliffe who found herself swept up with a diverse group to save Ferelden simply because she knew how to maintain armour and weapons.

Above the salt, as the Free Marchers put it, sat Muirne Amell, her face still drawn from the words Cullen had given her at the Circle; Sereda Aeducan, who spent most of the Orzammar mission trying to kill Brytta Brosca because the latter ruined her plans for Lord Harrowmount to become a puppet-ruler; and Rowena Cousland, the highest-ranked noblewoman in the land who'd caught a naïve templar-turned-Warden with the right daddy and made herself Queen of Ferelden. Whenever Regan looked upon the statuesque brunette with her braided crown of glossy hair and cool leaf-green eyes, she felt a strong urge to break her straight, slightly aquiline nose in several places.

"We're supposed to," Enansel answered for Regan, her voice much huskier and richer than one expected coming from an elf with white-gold hair who looked ready to be blown away on a strong wind. But she was a tough one, Muirne claimed, having been the one to deliver the deathblow to a full-blown Pride abomination in the Circle of Magi. "But when we raised that fact, we were informed by Queen Rowena and Arl Eamon that 'Ferelden needed the continuity provided by a Theirin heir married to the last – or so everyone thought at the time – Cousland'."

Regan kept her eyes lowered, trying to conceal her bitterness. It wasn't qualms over Wardens clinging to their pasts that drove the freewoman to despise the noblewoman; it was the simple fact that Rowena had left everyone to die in Redcliffe Village just so she could focus on the castle and the Arl trapped within.

Abelas grunted sourly; Rowena had let his father die when she was dealing with the Tevinter magisters, claiming that they'd pulled some blood magic trick and escaped. Zevran, who'd accompanied them, had told a rather different tale of Rowena allowing a magister to strengthen her at the cost of the elves' lives.

The Warden, a heavy-shouldered warrior who carried himself like a chevalier despite his Warden's armour being as battered as Brytta's from violence, looked between the others at the table, eyes lingering on the empty place set for Daveth. Half-Chasind and a thorough-going rogue, he'd been the first to reach the archdemon and kill it, dying in the process. Regan suspected that Morrigan's sudden departure had much to do with the rogue throwing his life away when they'd agreed on drawing straws for the dubious honour of post-mortem immortality.

"In Orlais, you would be seated at the Empress' table for your valour. Every Warden who survives a Blight deserved to wear the Crimson Griffin for the rest of their days and is automatically granted the Silverite Wings of Honour. In the order, you could choose your posting, even to one of the comfortable ones reserved for an old, retiring Warden. Yet you sit below the salt, not even at the first table, and the little I've heard paints the ones at this table on the roof at Fort Drakon while those above the salt remained at the gates."

Madorfinan pursed her lips, those grey eyes that looked beyond the physical to another place focusing for a moment on the Orlesian. "Muirne remaining at the gates was tactical; she is a better Spirit Mage than she is a frontline fighter. But Sereda and Rowena both claim that it was necessary for them to remain in case something went wrong, and Alistair… He is a good man. But he was raised to have no backbone, as not to challenge his late brother King Cailan, and Rowena rules him as she does the country."

"Pfft. They're diamond-castes – nobles – the lot of them," Brytta suddenly said, her voice harsh as a raven's croak after her best friend reportedly slit her throat in Orzammar. "Bhelen's okay, for the most part, but Sereda's gonna haunt him because she got played by the guy smart enough to be King of Orzammar."

"And the pair of you will be named Paragons." It seemed this Orlesian was being kept to date on news from the dwarven kingdom. His bushy beard concealed most of his pale face, but the little she could see was the carven-statue look most of the Orlesian nobility had, if Arlessa Isolde was anything to go by. "It will be up to Weisshaupt who will become the Warden-Commander of the new garrison in Orzammar, though I wager you're the most likely candidate, Warden-Ensign Brytta."

Enansel snickered. "Remind me to stay away from Orzammar."

"Oh, piss off Sparkles. You haven't forgiven me convincing you that nugs were carnivorous predators."

Regan looked above the salt to watch poor besotted Alistair look confusedly between Sereda and Rowena as they laughed about something. Probably who killed the most people to get what they wanted.

"I see that you have remained silent," the Orlesian noted, looking between her and Abelas.

The city elf's narrow jaw rippled as he stared the Warden – whose name they hadn't gotten yet – defiantly in the face, yellow-green eyes almost as feral as an alley cat. Abelas – _not_ his birth name, as it meant 'sorrow' according to Madorfinan – had lost a lot more than Regan to the nobility of Ferelden. Zevran, who was something less than a lover but more than a bedmate, was the only check on his formidable temper and justifiable hatred of most shems. "The shem who calls herself Queen sacrificed my father and allowed the Tevinter magister who enslaved my wife to leave in return for being strengthened by the lives of two dozen elves," he finally growled. "And she let Regan's entire family die at Redcliffe because she was more worried about the Arl than his people."

The Warden raised an eyebrow, expression neutral beneath that bushy black beard. "You were separated to gather treaties, correct?"

Madorfinan nodded in confirmation. "It seemed a wise thing at the time; let the dwarves take care of Orzammar, the mages to handle the Circle, and the elvhen to go to the Brecelian for the Dalish. As the only human noblewoman, Rowena went to Redcliffe for Arl Eamon's help, and Regan went with Daveth to Denerim in the search for the Urn of Sacred Ashes."

Regan's hand tightened around the plain pewter tankard that those below the salt were given. "I was exiled from Redcliffe for a year because I'd punched my family's debtor in the face when he tried to collect on the debt in more than gold," she admitted flatly. "It was decided I should go to Denerim because by the time I returned, it would have been over."

"Ah." The Orlesian Warden took a hefty gulp of his own tankard. "My condolences, for the pair of you."

"You can't be asking this for personal reasons," Regan continued flatly, the dam she'd erected on her mouth since the siege of Denerim broken to let her hatred and bitterness spew forth. She'd called Duncan every name under the sun after he'd invoked the Right of Conscription just because he needed a tinker; she could have travelled Ferelden, even hung around in the Hinterlands so long as she didn't enter the village proper, and sent money to her mother, money enough to escape to anywhere that wasn't Redcliffe. For months she'd battled through muck and mire, snow and stone, just to find the ashes of a dead woman to heal a nobleman who let his wife bring in craftsmen who left the freefolk of Redcliffe impoverished because the castle no longer bought from them. And her best friend in the Wardens, the one who she thought would be sensible and let some other idiot take the deathblow, had died a hero and would become more ashes in a fancy tomb like the mausoleum Arl Eamon was planning for the villagers killed by Connor.

"I am not," he confirmed, wiping his lips. "My name is Ser Blackwall, Warden-Constable of Val Chevin. Weisshaupt sent me to evaluate the lot of you to become the next Warden-Commander of Ferelden; because I'm a Free Marcher by birth, I'm as neutral as they'll get amongst the experienced Wardens."

Regan and Abelas exchanged glances and said almost in unison, _"Don't pick me."_

Ser Blackwall's mouth quirked in something that was almost wry humour. "I wasn't going to. Enansel Surana will be the Warden-Commander of Ferelden just as Brytta will be in Orzammar."

The frail-looking elven woman gave a vulpine grin. She had delighted in hexing Rowena at inopportune but not deadly times. She'd keep the damn noble honest, as honest as could be done.

"I intend to join Zevran in Antiva and have words with the Antivan Crows on his behalf," Abelas told the Warden-Constable coldly. Which told Regan he was going to _join_ the Crows and kill a lot of shems for a lot of gold. She wished him luck.

"King Alistair has promised the Dalish land in the Blighted lands between Lothering and Ostagar, so I will be rejoining my clan," Madorfinan answered. "Call me Warden-Commander of the Dalish, if you will, though that will mean little to the People unless we must meet with shemlen."

Blackwall nodded thoughtfully. "You've earned as much freedom as the Wardens can give. Antiva's Warden-Commander was saying his Black Griffin – a Crow Master who is also a Warden – was getting on a bit, Abelas. Shall I recommend you for the post?"

"If you wish," Abelas responded indifferently.

Everyone looked expectantly at Regan. She'd always been a bit of an outsider amongst the Wardens because she had little in common with them beyond being of low birth. The Wardens carried the scars that their origins had given them in body and soul, perhaps even Rowena and Sereda; Regan suspected that Muirne would be going on her Calling sooner rather than later after Cullen, her one true love, rejected her so forcefully. She'd always been a hothouse flower.

"I'm leaving Ferelden," she finally said loudly. "I can't stand to be in the same kingdom as Rowena Cousland."

Above the salt, they were toasting each other, Alistair's face sloppy with drink while Rowena remained cool and collected as always. Regan figured that if she was going to leave Ferelden, she'd do it in style, so she rose to her feet, collected the half-empty tankard from a surprised Ser Blackwall and marched up to the high table.

Silence rippled throughout the great hall as everyone avidly waited to see what this _common_ Warden would say to the Queen who claimed to have led them all to victory in the Blight. But it had been Daveth's death wish that delivered Ferelden, not Rowena Cousland, who'd gotten her hands dirty in all the wrong ways.

"I'd like to toast Daveth, my brother-in-arms who died to save us all from the Blight," Regan said, deliberately taking a sip from the tankard. "I'd like to toast my fellow Wardens who sit below the salt." Another sip. "And finally, I'd like to toast Queen Rowena Cousland, who let nearly a hundred villagers from Redcliffe and twenty-two elves from Denerim's alienage die because she never looked down from her goal of achieving the Mabari Throne."

She then threw the tankard's contents into an astonished Rowena's face before slamming the bottom into that straight, slightly aquiline nose with a satisfying crack. A veteran of a few tavern brawls, Regan knew within a hair the amount of force it would take to break a nose but not kill someone.

The Queen promptly began to scream for someone to arrest Regan, but Alistair, his golden eyes grim for a change, jerked his chin pointedly at the door for the tinker-Warden to leave.

Regan saluted her fellow Wardens, most of whom she'd likely never meet again, and headed for the nearest exit as the silence ended in a rising roar of inchoate noise.

…

"You're not Blackwall."

Thom Rainier – now calling himself Blackwall even after his lie had been discovered – looked up from the pack he'd bundled together to meet the stony blue-grey gaze of a short, wide-hipped woman in Warden-Scout's armour.

"No, my lady, I'm not. He died on the Storm Coast and I took his name because I was running from the murder of an Orlesian noble family," the warrior admitted starkly. He expected to be spat upon because the surviving Wardens from Adamant had done so when the lie was discovered.

Argent Adaar, the kossith who had become the Inquisitor, had bluntly told him that now the Breach was ended, his services were no longer required. Even a former mercenary had… standards… it seemed. She'd let him go with the fine armour of silverite and dragonling scales she'd had forged for him, though, and the weapons to go with it. "Your pay," she'd growled two hours ago as she dismissed him from the Inquisition.

"You can call yourself the King-Hound of Redcliffe for all I care," the Warden responded bluntly, unfazed by his confession. Judging by the threads of white in her blondish-brown hair and the crow's feet around her eyes, she'd probably heard much worse. "Ser Blackwall Conscripted you and that still stands. The Inquisition has agreed – within reason, of course – to honour the ancient treaties."

Her accent was Fereldan beneath the slight lilt picked up from Starkhaven; if she was in the Free Marches, it would explain why she hadn't fallen prey to Corypheus' false Calling.

"I was given leave to go where I would," Blackwall replied cautiously.

The Warden's expression was wry for a heartbeat. "I couldn't stop a big lug like you from leaving if you wanted to. But there's a thousand gold on your head and a host of people wanting to collect. As a Warden, they can't touch you."

"I'm surprised you haven't decided to fetch yourself a nice tithe," Blackwall countered bitterly. He had always believed in the tales of Warden heroism, especially since the real Blackwall had been the embodiment of the man Thom Rainier should have been, but the events at Adamant had shaken him to the soul. Only Argent Adaar's pragmatism had kept the Wardens in Orlais – that and her belief in Blackwall's basic decency. She had turned cold and nasty on him, turning towards the Iron Bull as a lover, after he'd saved Mornay from execution by confessing his own crimes.

"Pfft. What would I do with a thousand gold when I earned my Silverite Wings of Valour in the Blight and landed myself a job as a recruiter?" she retorted dryly. "Warden-Constable Emeritus Regan Mac Lanna at your service, Thom or Blackwall or whatever the fuck you want to call yourself."

"How did you avoid the false Calling Corypheus used to lure the Wardens in?" Blackwall asked, eyeing the short woman warily. Tales on Regan Mac Lanna had been as scant as tales of Warden-Queen Rowena Cousland's heroism were great.

"He was good. But I'd heard a real Archdemon and stared the fucker in the face as my best friend killed it," Regan pointed out dryly. "Besides, I'd been in Nevarra at the time, so it was only faint."

Blackwall nodded slowly. "I see. But why Conscript me if Adaar's going to allow the Wardens free run of the Inquisition?"

"You mean aside from you already being Conscripted?" Regan laughed, the sound edging on mirthless. "You could have disappeared beyond Orlais. Gaspard didn't have the reach then as he does now. But you hung around, teaching commoners to protect themselves against bandits and scum and even the odd nobleman who wanted more than he was owed. You joined the Inquisition, knowing you could possibly get caught, to save the world. You even hung on after the woman you loved dumped you for the Ben-Hassrath spy and made you watch miserably from the corner. You stuck around when Wardens spat on you like their hands were as clean as Andraste's knickers when Adamant was their own damned fault."

"I did so much wrong. The least I could do was try to make up for it," Blackwall admitted softly.

"You killed six or seven people in a fucking wagon, some of them children. Yes, it was terrible and you deserve to hang for it. But in Ferelden, they made a woman who let a hundred peasants die so she could reach a castle and sacrificed two dozen elves to become stronger Queen while in Orzammar, they have a Paragon who was duped into killing her own brother and tried to make a nobleman her puppet-king."

There was bitterness in Regan's voice, the bone-deep feeling of one who'd become as disgusted with the nobility as Sera had, as Blackwall had. The few stories that revolved around the Heroes of Ferelden made mention of her temper and breaking the Warden-Queen's nose over some trifle. Regan Mac Lanna had been written in the histories as a brawler who got lucky, a Warden who lived when the nobler Daveth, a poor man of good heart, had died. Somehow Blackwall got the feeling the truth was a lot more complicated than what Queen Rowena's historian made it out to be.

"I'm a murderer and a monster," Blackwall protested weakly. "I don't even know why Ser Blackwall even recruited me that day, why he was willing to die for me."

Adaar had refused to discuss it with him, casting him into the deep dungeons until she had use for him, and removing even the few comforts he'd allowed himself in the stables. In Regan he found a… not sympathetic ear but one willing to listen, one who understood the hypocrisy of the nobility.

"You know the stories that they tell about the Heroes of Ferelden around here? The ones where Daveth was a goodhearted slum-dweller, Brytta Brosca a thug with a heart of gold and Abelas Tabris a meek elf pushed to violence to protect his wife's virtue? Daveth was a half-Chasind pickpocket who sometimes ate the dead, Brytta Brosca held a man's face in lava in front of his children for not paying a debt during her Carta days and now does the same for King Bhelen, and Abelas joined the Crows because he grew to like killing shems." Regan's gaze was clear. "Enansel Surana is a maleficar, Muirne Amell died in some pointless skirmish in Amaranthine because she'd given up on living after being dumped by the Inquisition's glorious Commander Cullen, and Madorfinan Mahariel was as close to decent as any of us got, and _she_ believed she'd been chosen by the Dalish god of the dead."

"And I suppose you're as innocent as Andraste singing to the Maker in a field of wildflowers?" Blackwall retorted scornfully, shaken by her blunt recitation of the sins and sorrows of those she called her fellow Wardens.

"Hardly." Regan's smile was a little cold. "I was Conscripted after bashing a man I owed money to because he wanted me to pay in more than gold. I threw a drink in the face of the Queen of Ferelden and then broke her nose for no greater reason than she left my mother to die at Redcliffe. I've executed people who refuse to go through the Joining. I cut the throats of anyone who tries to kill me not because it's justice, but because it's fucking prudent."

Blackwall didn't bother to conceal the shudder that ran through his body at Regan's cold words. It was so startling to hear a killer's voice coming from a round-faced woman whose drab appearance and posture screamed _peasant._

"Some of the Wardens live up to the heroic reputation of the order," Regan continued in a gentler tone of voice. "Alistair is every bit the hero that the stories make him out to be and now he's grown a backbone, he keeps Rowena in check. Riordan gladly laid down his life to bring the archdemon down. Nathaniel Howe and Sigrun stood side-by-side as the darkspawn swarmed Amaranthine and did not flee, buying time for hundreds of people to escape the darkspawn even as Enansel ordered flaming catapults to raze the city to the ground."

"All a Warden is, is a promise. To protect others... even at the cost of your own life," Blackwall murmured.

Regan nodded slowly. "And that is why I am upholding the Conscription that Ser Blackwall invoked. You understand the simple truth of our order in a way that even many Wardens have forgotten. At Adamant, the warriors and scouts gladly gave their lives believing they were protecting the world from the Blight. They were misled, for the most part, though they should have put up a better fight. But they followed what those above the salt told them to do. I want Wardens who are willing to die to save the world… but who are also sceptical enough to trust their conscience over the words of some fucking commander who considers personal ambition worth more than the lives of good men and women."

The Warden-Constable turned from him, oddly graceful despite her stocky frame. She had dwarven blood in her, it seemed, though she was too tall to be a pureblood. "We need Warden-Commanders who will understand the balance between honour and pragmatism. Sinners and saints fill the Grey, all made equal by the taint and that promise you spoke of. I have standards: no rapists, no kiddie-fiddlers, no one who likes violence and no drug addicts. Anyone else is fair game."

Blackwall hefted his pack over his shoulder, recalling the last time he'd followed a Warden-Constable. "I assume Stroud is now Warden-Commander?" he asked, naming the only Warden to refuse Clarel's plans and actively work to end them.

"Stroud is halfway to Weisshaupt now. Besides, he was okay in the Free Marches but got booted out after Anders blew up the fucking Chantry for not hauling the man in when he had a chance," Regan said over her shoulder. "And no, I'm not going to be it."

They emerged from the stables to find the twenty or so Wardens remaining in Skyhold lined up neatly in two rows. Chernoff, one of the survivors of Adamant who'd backed down when Adaar offered him a chance to leave safely, stepped forward with a cup of polished bone in his hand. "Might as well get it over and done with, Warden-Constable," he told Regan.

"Good. The man's killed darkspawn in the past, so he won't have to catch his own." Regan accepted the cup and turned to offer it to Blackwall. It smelt foul and acrid, like… darkspawn taint. "Join us brothers and sisters. Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And that one day we shall join you."

Simple words, old and worn as the stones of Adamant. Simple words, uttered with the calm promise of the grave. Simple words, a vow offered countless times by saint and sinner alike, spoken by more people than the Chant of Light could ever hope for. Simple words, for death in a cup and a grave simple as the oath taken.

Simple words that offered Blackwall a baptism more real than any the Chantry performed in the hope of granting atonement and redemption. He took the cup and drank.

He claimed Thom Rainier died on a cold wet day on the Storm Coast. He believed it for a while until Mornay's near-hanging proved otherwise. His hopes to be Blackwall died when Adaar shut him out for the Iron Bull, who had never lied to her as Blackwall had. He'd managed to cobble together some semblance of identity between the murderer he was and the Warden he wanted to be when Adaar first gave him to the Wardens and then told him to leave as he wished when the hole in the sky was shut by her glowing green hand.

As the draught, bitter as Regan's truths about the order and fiery as the promise they represented, slid down his throat, Blackwall found his identity as a Warden. In a way, he would now make the lie truth.

…

"I thought Wardens left their old lives behind."

Regan Mac Lanna smiled at the Warden-Recruit they'd pulled from the gallows in Hossberg, the young elf's catlike yellow-green eyes reminiscent of Abelas as he watched her sideways after being told to go visit his family in Hossberg's alienage before they left for Weisshaupt.

"We do. Rank, inheritance, most of our worldly possessions…" They were walking through the alienage now beneath the shade of the bone-white tree, twisted and gnarled like an old sylvan's fingers, that was their Vhenadahl. She remembered a discussion between Enansel, Abelas and Madorfinan about its significance around the campfire shortly after Lothering, when they still believed a little in heroes. "But the rest of it we carry like a pack on our shoulders."

Haldar nodded thoughtfully. "That's one way to put it. Why did you rescue me from the crowd?"

Regan's smile bloomed again, this time a little crooked. Twenty years and the Wardens' civil war behind her, she sometimes found it in her to smile with more than mockery or cold bitterness. This big-eyed lad, relatively innocent but for the setting fire to a grabby seneschal bit, managed to bring out her rarely seen warmth. "Because you're not the last person to kick someone from above the salt in the nads – figuratively speaking – and nearly hang for it. Our mage is also getting on a bit and we figure he needs an apprentice. Relax, we're not going to make you love demons or whatever."

Haldar nodded once more and vanished into the crowd. His description had been written down and posted at all the City Watch posts and the gates, so unless he wanted to live in the alienage for the rest of his life, he couldn't run. Never again would another Thom Blackwall happen.

_Speaking of which…_ "I assume you've rounded up this month's Conscripts from the Circle of Magi?"

"I have. First Enchanter Radra is kicking herself over missing Haldar." While mages had complete freedom because of Divine Victoria, she who had been the Nightingale, they were still fostered in Circles from manifestation to Harrowing. Fostered, because their families were encouraged to visit them often, and they were permitted to visit them in turn on holy days.

"So, what's the haul?" Regan continued to look up at the Vhenadahl.

"One arcanist who fancies herself the new Dagna." Arcanists, dwarves who studied magical theory, had become so sought after that it had been decreed that they could only be hired through the Circles. They were part of the Fomori fraternity with the few Tranquils who still existed – these days mages who requested it because they couldn't cope or those who had committed heinous crimes that were still less than an automatic death penalty – and were apparently taking over the Merchants' Guild… slowly.

Regan _nearly_ turned around to face her fellow recruiter. "You know we can't put her through the Joining with that sort of expertise."

Sometimes, exceptionally talented people were spared the Joining, especially Spirit Healers, craftsmen and apparently now an arcanist. It allowed the Wardens to stock up on gifted individuals, much like the Inquisition did, without the problem of wasting taint and their talent if they couldn't survive it.

"Radra begged me to Conscript her. She's been experimenting with more than runes." That rough voice was amused. "Nearly as crazy for explosions as Rocky from the Bull's Chargers."

Rocky, the man who had managed to discover the recipe for Qunari blackpowder. Regan shook her head, suddenly feeling her age as two City Watchmen walked past with the newfangled muskets over their shoulders. Twenty years a Warden and the Inquisition had brought together the greatest minds in the world to work wonders… and terrors… beyond imagining.

"_She_ is right here, you know," protested a young woman's voice from behind Regan. "I only used enough blackpowder to blow open the confessional door and show everyone what Revered Mother Celeste was getting up to with Enchanter Heinrich."

"Reminds me of Wynne and Genitivi on the way back from Haven…" Regan mused. Twenty years a Warden and most of the blood had been washed away by tears and time. Now she could even sometimes laugh about the Fifth Blight.

"Be honoured, Helga," her fellow recruiter growled. "You're in the presence of Ser Regan Mac Lanna, High Constable of the Grey, Hero of Ferelden, Finder of the Sacred Ashes… and the woman who Conscripted me."

"You just sounded like an Orlesian herald announcing my presence at a masked fucking ball," Regan said over her shoulder. "Shall I recite your titles, Thom Blackwall?"

"Let's not. It would be bloody hindering awkward if our new arcanist runs screaming in terror," the criminal turned Warden drawled.

Helga wasn't screaming in terror. In fact, she'd gone silent with awe. Even when the truth surrounding his past came to light, Thom Blackwall, First Warden of the Grey, Hero of the Inquisition and the Breaker of Weisshaupt tended to have that effect on people. Probably because like the Herald of fucking Andraste, all who had served in Adaar's inner circle had been Anointed as living Blessed by Divine Victoria. Leliana had tried to pin that crap on the surviving Heroes of Ferelden and the late Hawke too until Regan picked up a golden goblet full of holy wine. She'd meant to drink it but the Divine hastily backpedalled from the idea of Anointing her for some reason.

Regan managed a sad smile. Enansel had been murdered by an agent of Corypheus because she was too canny a Warden-Commander to fall for his shit while Madorfinan had gone on her Calling instead of submitting to Clarel. Abelas had been too far away to hear anything and was apparently now Warden-Constable of a nice little city in Antiva where Zevran served as Guild Master for the Crows. Brytta was still going strong in Orzammar, an entire generation of Wardens looking up to her as the epitome of Paragon and the patron of House Brosca, which now encompassed all Dusters. The ex-Carta thug was silent on Sereda's fate though apparently there was a golem with Sereda's name on it. Branka was crazy and Regan was glad she didn't have to deal with that shit.

Queen Rowena and King Alistair were locked in a struggle over who should be King to follow them: _she_ wanted her brother Fergus and _he_ wanted Arl Teagan. Regan would put her bets on the former Bann of Rainesferre for the man was known for his basic human decency, something that Ferelden sorely needed after the Blight, the Mage-Templar War and the Breach crap.

And Regan? She heard the faintest strains of music, an orchestral piece that made the Orlesian College of Musicians look like a simple shepherd's tune, and knew her time had come.

"What are you humming?" Helga asked curiously. "It sounds… lovely."

"The song of the Old Gods," Regan admitted quietly, turning around to face them. Helga was a lovely young dwarva with mint-green eyes and a hint of curl to her black hair. She'd go far in the Wardens.

Blackwall was every inch the old grizzled warrior he was, hair pure iron-grey now and beard streaked with white. Still solid muscle despite being almost sixty, he reminded her of Loghain, only one who'd managed to be redeemed because he'd been given a chance.

Most people assumed they were lovers. Regan pretty much laughed whenever it came up though Blackwall looked wistful. But Regan had buried the urge for love years ago and never looked back.

"Regan…" He began, then stopped to swallow thickly. "So soon?"

"Twenty years for a Blight Warden _is_ a lifetime," she reminded him calmly. "It's why our griffins are red – we're exposed to so much taint we tend to have a decade or so."

How could she tell a man who might love her that it would be good to die and see old friends again? She didn't believe Riordan's crap about Warden souls being destroyed when the archdemon died. She was pretty sure Daveth would be waiting for her with a grin as questionable as the dice he gambled with.

And if he wasn't, well, shit happened.

"We'll hold a farewell feast for you," Blackwall promised fiercely. "You can even sit above the salt."

"I thought you wanted to honour me?" Regan had _never_ sat above the salt and she wasn't about to just because it was her Calling.

"Regan…"

"Blackwall, _please_. Just because you managed to inspire an entire bardic cycle of songs doesn't mean you need to end with it with some anguished declaration of whatever." Regan smiled as the First Warden spluttered. "If you _really_ want to honour me, sneak me into the Merchants' Guild for some Valenta Red."

Helga's father turned out to be the local Guild Master _and_ a seller of fine dwarven ales to boot. Regan accepted a wineskin of Valenta Red (on the house, no less) because he wanted to be the one who gave the High Constable her last toast. Purebloods were strange like that.

Two hours later, Haldar accompanied them to the dwarven embassy where Regan's name would be preserved in lyrium for the Lists of the Grey in Orzammar and watched with wide eyes as the woman who saved him from the gallows drank one last toast and walked unafraid into the darkness.

Alone in the dark, Regan smiled. It was a long walk ahead of her, so she might as well get started. At least she would die as she lived – below the salt.


End file.
